


Carrot and Stick

by thereinafter (isyche)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Friendships, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Missions, Road Trips, background Dagna/Sera - Freeform, background Hawke/Fenris/Isabela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isyche/pseuds/thereinafter
Summary: After Hawke drags Fenris to Skyhold to rescue Varric, they find themselves talked into running errands for half of the Hinterlands, and enthusiastically/begrudgingly making some Inquisition friends.





	Carrot and Stick

Fenris was in the middle of a terrible bottle of wine from the border inn that had reluctantly housed them for a fortnight when Hawke banged the door open and tossed a folded paper into his lap. "Look at this. It's from Varric!"

Fenris blinked.

"He wants us to come south," Hawke went on. "He may also have lost his mind."

"South where?" Fenris asked.

"Never heard of it. Just read it for yourself and tell me if you think this is a hostage situation." She sat down and took a swig from his bottle.

Clearly she wasn't going anywhere, so he opened the letter. "Apparently it's important," he said after puzzling out Varric’s handwriting. "And we are done here for now."

"Of course it's important," said Hawke. "How much gear do you think we'll need to break him out?"

* * *

A week later, they were in the hold of a ship on the Waking Sea, drunk and losing at cards to Isabela, who was convinced it was all a colossally well played joke on Varric's part.

"You'll see," she said. "I’ll bet he's just bored shitless by that so-called Herald of Andraste and her holy mission, and wants an exit strategy. I know I would." Then she laid down four angels and grinned.

"Fuck," Hawke said, and started unbuttoning her shirt. "How are you still wearing that hat? At least win her hat, Fenris."

"It's good to be the admiral," Isabela said.

* * *

The next morning, she waved the hat to them from the deck as they rowed toward the rocky beach of some Maker-forsaken armpit of Ferelden. It was raining, and cold. Fenris was not impressed.

Hawke noticed his teeth chattering as he pulled his oar. She put her arm around his shoulders, frowned in concentration, and he felt an increasing warmth through his body, until he could almost describe it as cozy despite the rain.

"That’s a good trick," he said, leaning into her.

"Some benefits to having me around, huh." She pushed dripping hair out of her eyes.

“I’ve never denied it.”

She grinned and let him kiss her wet face before she went back to rowing.

The nearest town was a muddy encumbered half-day’s walk from the beach, and the inn there was even more dubious than the ones they'd been patronizing across the Free Marches, with one hundred percent more wet dog smell. But it had a roof and a fire and Hawke liked dogs.

Fenris kept his hood up and his voice down, Hawke charmed the innkeeper's mabari with tidbits from her plate and didn’t do any magic, and they passed the evening drying out with only a few stares from the locals.

The talk was mostly of fishing—boats, nets, weather conditions, and how to sell bad fish to Orlesians for exorbitant prices—but then a wild-eyed man with the shakes stumbled in out of the rain, raving about walking skeletons and demons and a green glowing tear in the sky over his village.

So Varric wasn't embellishing that part, anyway.

Hawke's ears had been pricked since he mentioned the demons, and when the crowd finally left the man alone and slumped over the counter, she exchanged glances with Fenris, pushed away from their table, and went to buy him a drink.

"I guess Varric hasn't completely lost his mind, whatever else he's gotten himself into," she said later. "That poor bastard. I gave him some money for a room."

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Hawke said. “But speaking of rooms, let’s go see if ours is tolerable.”

* * *

A few hours after they woke up in the fairly tolerable bed, there was a break in the rain, and weak sunlight briefly illuminated the town. The inn still smelled of wet dog.

Hawke wanted to set off directly southwest, into the mountains, where Varric had said this place was. Fenris had a hard time taking this seriously, but if there were rifts in the Veil full of demons, he supposed there could be a castle in the sky.

“We’ll need horses,” she said. “You’ll need boots, at the very least, unless you want to freeze all your toes off. I’ve never been up in the Frostbacks, but Varric says the snow is year-round.”

He had a hard time imagining this, too, but acquiesced to purchasing a comically massive, musty fur coat and matching boots that made his feet itch.

After asking around, they found a farmer in the market square who was willing to take strangers’ money for horses. Fenris had been watching Hawke dicker for half an hour over two short, shaggy animals advertised as mountain-bred ponies when a dwarf girl in chain mail tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

“Hi, there,” she said, raising both hands. She looked too clean to belong in this town. “I think you call yourself Fenris, and I think that’s the Champion of Kirkwall. Am I right?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Name’s Harding. Varric Tethras told Sister Nightingale his friends were coming, and she told me and my scouts to keep a look out.” Her freckled face was friendly but guarded, and she wore a symbol like an eye on her jerkin.

Fenris eventually nodded, giving up on playing games. Who else was he going to pretend they were?

“I was pretty sure. You’re kind of hard to miss.” Harding smiled. “So, if that is the Champion, might want to stop her before she gets royally cheated. I have better horses for you.” She patted her pockets. “I also have a note, somewhere … ah.”

He had to say “Hawke” a couple of times before she stopped inspecting the ponies’ teeth and turned around.

“What?” The farmer started to protest, and she held up a hand.

“We don’t need them. Message for you.” He gestured to Harding, who held the note up.

“Sorry, never mind! I’m sure they’re completely worth the price and more,” Hawke said to the man. She crossed back to the covered stall where Fenris stood. Clouds had gathered again, and he did not want to be rained on more than necessary.

“Hello,” she said. “You’re with the Inquisition, I see. Marian Hawke.” She held out a hand, and Harding shook it.

“Nice to meet you. Messere Tethras sent this along as a guarantee of safe conduct.”

Hawke opened the note, read for a second and pursed her lips, then passed it to Fenris.

_Hawke:_

_Scout Harding will get you to Skyhold. You both can trust her. Don’t be an idiot and do your own thing, unless you want them hauling your frozen corpses out of a glacier come springtime._

_First round is on me when you make it._

_Varric_

“Sounds like him,” Fenris said, refolding it.

“Hmm.” Hawke pocketed the note. “Well, freezing to death would spoil his plans for a _Tale of the Champion_ sequel. But, on the other hand, a free ride. Let’s follow the lady.” She nodded to Harding.

The Inquisition had a camp just out of sight of town that looked smarter than most of the town, with squared-away tents, banners, cages of messenger birds, and soldiers carting supplies to and fro. Fenris was starting to be a little impressed. If they were fanatics, they were well organized ones.

Harding collected two covered carts, and an extra pair of sturdy horses were brought for Hawke and himself, bigger than the ones she’d been bargaining for.

“Have everything you need, Champion?” she asked. “The quartermaster can probably get it, if not.”

“We’re set,” Hawke said, inspecting the horses. “Unless he has any Kirkwall salted sprats. I’m craving those awful things.”

“I can ask,” said Harding.

* * *

The dwarf was good company on the trail: knew her business, kept to herself, and didn’t ask too many questions. Hawke, on the other hand, quizzed her about the Inquisition and the situation in Ferelden until she started making apologetic excuses to go scout ahead.

The mud and rain persisted for three days’ ride before the land started to rise. These mountains seemed no worse than the range around Kirkwall; hardly worth wrapping himself in half a bear. The furs stayed in his saddlebag. Hawke made no comment.

Then, a day after that, Harding fell back from the head of their procession to announce they were leaving the foothills, and Hawke started laughing.

“That frown,” she said. “I won’t say I told you so when you have to open that.”

The trails grew steeper and drier, needles replacing leaves on the trees. One morning there was frost around the mouth of their Inquisition-issued tent when they awoke. Then it was on the trail, and then falling from the sky. Finally, Fenris had to admit his feet were cold and break out the nonsensical boots and the rest of it.

When the snow was deep enough to foul the cart wheels, Harding called a halt and enlisted them to help her replace the wheels with long polished runners she dragged out of the cart beds. After Fenris struggled to lever up one of them, Hawke cracked her knuckles, raised her staff a bit, and it floated up a few inches.

Harding didn’t bat an eye, and even thanked her for the time savings. “We don’t get many mages on these runs.”

They stopped for the night well before dark, in a snow-covered dell between two slopes. As they were staking down the second tent and Harding was clearing an area for the horses to feed, Hawke went off to rummage through one of the supply carts. Then her head popped up and she lifted out a large tower shield in plain steel. “Aha!” she said. “I’m just going to borrow this a second, all right?”

Without waiting for Harding to reply, she looped the shield over her arm and came to get Fenris. “Come on.” She grabbed his fur-gloved hand and pulled him after her all the way up the closer slope, boots crunching through the snow crust.

“What now, Hawke?”

“You’ll see.” She looked down toward the campsite, then unstrapped her staff, stepped in front of him, breathed and wiggled her fingers, and raised a cone of cold that left a gleaming icy pathway down the hill.

She stabbed the staff into the snow and set down the shield on its face. “Get on.”

“Why?”

“Sit on it, I’ll sit behind you, and we’ll slide down. Sledding. It’s fun.”

He shaded his eyes to look down at the camp. Harding was a small figure making a fire and watching them. He looked back at Hawke.

Her cheeks were red from the cold and her breath clouded in the air. She laughed and rewrapped the scarf around her neck. “One time, Fenris. Lighten up for five whole minutes.”

He got on, folding his fur-swathed legs onto the shield and gripping the edges. Hawke squeezed on behind him and gave it a sharp push onto the ice.

The slide was a scraping, then swooping fall, a moment of exhilaration with her arms wrapped tight around him until she whooped in his ear and they tumbled ridiculously off the shield into the snow.

She pushed herself up and kissed him with warming enthusiasm. “Ha. I felt you laugh.” She poked him in the ribs. “You had fun.” She looked especially beautiful when she was pleased with herself about something. He used to find it infuriating.

“I follow in your footsteps, Hawke. You can carry it back up.”

They went down a few more times, trading places, and made it farther before toppling. Harding even took a turn while the stew cooked, and said a few of the Inquisition scouts had a terrifying hill closer to the fortress where they risked life and limb.

* * *

Another week passed of cold camping and colder climbing, despite all Hawke’s various warming tricks, before they made it through the pass to Skyhold.

They crested a last rise and there it was: a real castle, more imposing than he had pictured, a solid shape of civilized order among jagged frozen peaks. The long causeway in front seemed like the only safe approach.

“A fortress in the sky,” Fenris mused. “Impressively defensible.”

Harding took out a palm-sized mirror and flashed a signal pattern. After a moment, answering flashes came from the guardhouse.

By the time the horses dragged the sleighs down the rocky trail, the portcullis on the near end of the causeway was up. Fenris glanced over the side and was dazzled by sunlight on white ice above and blue ice far below.

Halfway across, the second portcullis began to rise. A small group waited behind it: three taller figures behind a familiar one in red.

“Hawke!” Varric shouted, raising his hand.

Hawke, grinning, waved her arm back and forth and then slid out of her saddle to hurry ahead of the horses. “Come on,” she called back to Fenris.

When they got closer, Fenris recognized two of the others: the Divine’s emissary Sister Nightingale, whom Harding had said she served, and beside her one of Meredith’s knight-captains, of all people.

He exchanged glances with Hawke, who was embracing Varric and slapping him on the back. She looked as bemused as he felt.

The third, a pretty Antivan woman in blue and gold, said, “Welcome to Skyhold, my lady Champion. The Inquisitor is away, but we are honored to receive you both. I am Josephine Montilyet, and this is Sister Leliana, whom I believe you have met before, and Commander Cullen.”

“Andraste’s flaming ass,” Hawke said while shaking her offered hand. “Er, sorry, Sister. But, Captain Cullen, seriously? What happened to you?” She waved in the general direction of his head. “Who else from Kirkwall is here?”

“It’s Commander now,” he said, running a discomfited hand through his hair. “Lady Cassandra brought me too, with Varric. Good to see you with us, Champion.”

“Right, right,” she said. “Wow. Meredith’s golden boy, too. Small world. Never would have expected that.”

The hooded sister had pulled Varric aside a little way, but Fenris could still hear her. “I told you I’m not angry,” she said, “but I still doubt Cassandra will be pleased about this.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“And she’s supposed to be resting, _quietly_ , after that wound she took. I suggest you let me tell her.”

“That’s another favor I owe you, Nightingale.”

“I’ll think of something.” She smiled and her face transformed momentarily, arch instead of severe. Then she stepped back and was gone around a corner.

Varric straightened, shook his head as if dusting something off, and turned back toward them. “Freckles, do you mind taking their horses over with yours?” He glanced at Scout Harding, and she took the reins from Fenris. “Thanks. I owe you one too. Come on, both of you, I’ve got a round to buy.”

He led them behind the walls, into a sheltered sunny courtyard that was instantly warmer than Fenris had been in days. And the trees had leaves. Probably magic was involved. He would still take it over camping on ice again.

Ahead and to the left, away from the main keep, was another welcome sight: a little tavern with a roughly carved sign that read HERALD’S REST. Fenris doubted the so-called Herald did much resting, from what Harding had described, but they could use one, and Varric seemed safe and sound for the moment.

He waved them into the equally rough-hewn common room, past a table of obvious mercenaries who hailed him with greetings.

“Meet the Chargers,” Varric said. “Or some of them. Their boss is out. Krem, Dalish, Skinner, Grim: Hawke, Fenris.”

Krem raised a hand. He looked Tevinter, but not like a mage. Fenris returned the gesture warily.

“Nice walking stick,” said the elf called Dalish, who on the other hand clearly was one. “Reminds me of my bow.”

“Thanks,” said Hawke, raising her staff. “I get that a lot.”

Dalish laughed. “Maybe if I buy you a drink we can compare.”

“Hey now,” said the one next to her, Skinner.

“How about I treat all of you instead?” Hawke said, walking up to the counter. “A round of what they’re having.”

“And a round of the good ale for us,” Varric added, then lowered his voice. “Not what they’re having. Sit down, Hawke, I’ll get it.”

She chose a table against the wall. They might not be overheard there, although the mercenaries’ table was a little close. Fenris took the outside seat.

Varric joined them with a tray of clinking ale mugs, and took a deep draught from his as he sat down.

While he was still drinking, Hawke leaned across the table and whispered, “So the Divine’s Right Hand took you prisoner? Is she crazy? Is everyone here crazy? Do we need to mount a rescue? Say the word. Or blink three times for yes.”

He choked mid-gulp on a laugh, coughed, and spilled down his front. Mopping ale out of his chest hair, he said, “Yes, no, and not really. She’s just … well, picture Aveline, but with less restraint." He sighed. "What I mean is, she was probably right all along that we need you. Don't tell her I said that."

“I knew this was a mad idea, Hawke,” Fenris said.

She kicked him lightly under the table and kept looking at Varric. “’We’?”

"Somebody needs to do something about this red lyrium shit and all the rest, and this is the only game in town. Besides, Trevelyan is a good kid with a sense of humor. You'll like her too."

“Back up. ‘All the rest’? I think I need a rundown of what I’m here for.”

“It’s a pretty long story, but fortunately, I’m good at that,” Varric said. He took another pull of his ale and launched into it from the beginning.

Fenris wasn’t interested in Chantry politics or the theological implications of this Laurel Trevelyan’s mark, and the southern mages and templars could fight each other to extinction as far as he was concerned without roping him in. Varric’s mention of a turncoat Tevinter altus in her inner circle made him even more dubious.

Hawke got heated on his behalf. “Maker’s breath, we’ve been out _hunting_ them, Varric. They’re not on our side.”

“This one is, Hawke. He showed up to help kill them. I’ve seen how good he is at it.”

“They kill their own all the time,” Fenris said. “I’ll see this for myself.” He added a mental tally mark to the crazy side for the Inquisition.

Varric poured himself more ale. “Stand down, Broody, he’s not even here right now. Anyway, like I was saying, the time magic …”

Nothing much of his long tall tale convinced Fenris that he and Hawke should stay until Varric described the attack that had destroyed the Inquisition’s first stronghold, and the revelation of the “Elder One” who was behind it. He finally leaned forward, hooked.

"You're saying this is all the work of the same dead magister we already killed," he said, with as much incredulity in his voice as he ever managed. “It didn’t take.”

“Not so much.”

“Then I’m in.” Fenris set his mug down hard to punctuate it. “I’ll kill him as many times as it does take.”

“That’s the spirit!” Varric held up his own mug, and Fenris eventually tapped his against it.

Hawke clinked hers with both of them. “Same here. You’ve got me as long as you need.”

The Chargers joined in with cheers from their table.

“Does he seem a little less broody these days, or is it me?” Varric said to Hawke.

“I’ve been working on it.” She slid over, bumped her hip into Fenris’s, and put her hand on his leg. When he looked down and smiled a little, she laughed.

But, after all, the ale was decent, there was a ancient magister with a god complex that needed killing, and Hawke was very pleased with herself. He could work around the rest.

* * *

Skyhold was smaller on the inside.

Granted, the room he and Hawke were given in one of the guard towers was more comfortable than Danarius’s decaying mansion or the fleabag inns they’d been staying at since. It was even stocked with good wine and a basket of Hawke’s favorite foods from Kirkwall, which she crowed over. Ambassador Montilyet was an unsettlingly astute hostess.

But they couldn’t stay in there for days. On the second afternoon, while Hawke spoke with the Inquisitor’s advisors, he saw all there was to see of the keep, barring the tower where they kept the mages and spies. One elegantly dressed mage looked down her nose at him from a balcony when he passed by; he felt her gaze bore into his back, but refused to hurry. He ended up in the tavern again, at a corner table with his book.

The third day, he spent a lot of time pacing the battlements, tugging his enormous fur coat tighter, watching the snow, and waiting for Hawke, who had disappeared inside again with the ambassador and Varric.

After what felt like hours, he grumbled to himself and made himself walk under the mage’s balcony again to look for her. Varric was just inside the great hall door, toasting his back by a fire. Fenris left his coat there and went down the passage Varric pointed out.

Two doors, then an imposing set of double ones. He could hear Hawke’s voice on the other side, and pushed one open a crack.

“… the Grey Warden I was working with on the red lyrium problem. I’m sure he would come if he knew the situation here.”

She was standing by an equally imposing table, pointing to spots on the map it held. The ambassador and the spymaster were listening with interest, while Commander Cullen seemed to be hanging back and trying to blend into the tapestries.

When he pushed the door further, all their heads turned. “Serah Fenris,” said Lady Montilyet, “please, join us. Can I offer you a hot drink?” She pointed to a steaming samovar, and he found himself accepting a cup of spiced tea, which he usually didn’t even like, but it smelled good and warmed him.

“Sorry,” Hawke said to him. “I swear I’m almost done here.”

Bending over the map, Sister Leliana blocked out a span of distance with her hand. “I can make sure the message reaches this Warden,” she said. “If he is still there. We … I … have heard some disturbing things.”

Cullen stepped away from the wall. “In the meantime, I have a thought. Our recruits would be impressed to train with the Champion of Kirkwall and her right-hand man, if the two of you have any interest in running through a few exercises. It might help morale.”

“Oh,” Hawke said, “er, maybe.”

“Speaking of impressed,” said the ambassador, flourishing her quill as she made a note, “we have noble guests who would also be eager to meet you, if you are willing to share a little of your time.”

Fenris could tell Hawke was groaning inside. “Thank you, my lady, Commander. We’ll definitely think about both of those ideas.” She bowed.

Leliana said nothing but was watching her carefully, and Fenris saw her smile under her hood.

“Is that all for today, then?” Hawke took a step toward the doors.

He swallowed the rest of the tea and returned the cup, preparing to follow her. “My thanks, Ambassador.”

“Well, there is a small dinner with our guests tonight, if the two of you would honor us,” Lady Montilyet said, beaming at him. “The cooks have all heard about you from Varric, and I expect them to outdo themselves.”

Apparently Hawke couldn’t say no to her either, because soon, scrubbed and dressed in their second sets of clothes, they were sitting down at a table in the great hall with the three advisors, two half-masked and powdered Orlesian aristocrats, and the mage from the balcony, who seemed to be another.

Varric had disappeared. Cullen looked as if he would like to. Fenris sympathized.

From under her gilded lashes, First Enchanter Vivienne observed him and Hawke with a particular interest that put his back up, but she asked none of the mocking questions he expected. The ambassador and Leliana kept the conversation moving, the Orlesians tittered at Hawke’s party stories, and he suspected they stared at him, but he couldn’t see their eyes. At least the food was better than anything he’d had since Kirkwall.

After the second cheese course, Hawke covered a yawn and said apologetically to Lady Montilyet that she was exhausted and would have to excuse herself. When they had escaped and were out of sight of the guests, she took Fenris’s hand, ducked low, and pulled him down the steps toward the Herald's Rest.

Varric was waiting for them inside, and the place was busier at night; the firelight and rough wood and voices carried him momentarily back to the Hanged Man. They spent the rest of the night like they were there again, in drinking and cards and talk, mostly from Varric and Hawke, while Fenris watched her and cut in occasionally.

At one point, at Varric’s instigation, Hawke got up and talked the gloomy minstrel into playing something more lively, which led to a mass free-for-all of swinging your partner and twirling and stamping that she swore to Fenris was a traditional Fereldan tavern dance. She danced badly but enthusiastically with everyone there—him, Varric, the Chargers, Harding, an elf girl with odd yellow hair, the bartender, and a few other folk whose names he never caught—and bought more rounds, which cemented her popularity with all of them.

While Hawke was dancing, Sister Leliana must have come in from behind Fenris, but he didn’t notice her until she slipped onto the bench opposite him. "Having a good time?"

He started, then nodded warily.

"I see the Champion has gotten her second wind."

Before she could say anything else, Varric squeezed his way out from the midst of the dance and hailed her. “Nightingale, that’s my seat you’re in!” He laughed. “No, no, I’ll let you have it if you stay for a hand of cards. I never see you at my games anymore.”

“I came to talk to the three of you.” Leliana glanced over his head at Hawke out on the floor. “I suppose we could do it over a quick game.”

The minstrel finished her song, and Hawke came back to the table, out of breath, brushing sweaty hair out of her eyes. Exertion always suited her. She grabbed Fenris’s cup and took a drink. “I’ll get you another.”

“No need,” he said, moving to make room for her.

She sat down and leaned on the table, smiling tipsily. “Hello again, Sister.”

“It is much more lively down here, isn’t it?” Leliana sounded more amused than Fenris expected.

Varric pulled up another bench. “Diamondback? Standard rules okay with everyone?” He began to deal.

Fenris picked up his cards: a bad hand. Hawke leaned back against the wall with her cards and ran her fingers down his spine. The lyrium warmed and chilled at her touch distractingly; but he drew twice and his luck did not improve, so there was nothing to be distracted from. He reclaimed the rest of his ale and let her do it.

On her third turn, Leliana said, “What I wanted to ask was—the Inquisitor may not return for some time. If Cullen and Josie’s ideas don’t appeal—” She laid down a card. “I thought perhaps, while you’re waiting, you could ride out and handle some of the concerns mounting up in her absence.” She fanned her hand together. “You have struck me as a woman of action.” She looked from Hawke to Varric. “And this would be a favor to me.”

Varric played a card. “If it’s all right by her, it’s all right by me. What do you say, Hawke?” She was sorting her cards back and forth in her hand with her feet up on the bench.

“That does sound like what we’re used to,” Fenris said, and tossed in one of his terrible cards at random.

“Adventuring like old times.” Hawke laughed. “Action. Sounds good.” She sat up. “Shit, I still have nothing.” She discarded a dragon and a song.

“Ha,” Leliana said, snapping up Hawke’s discards and laying down her winning hand.

Varric groaned. “How do you do that?”

“Good thing you weren’t playing for money, Varric. I should get back.” She stood up, a sharp silhouette against the firelight. “We can discuss the details in the morning.”

* * *

The next morning, Fenris awoke wedged onto the bench by their table, neck and legs cramped, and fuzzy about the rest of the night. Hawke was squeezed against his back, breathing into his ear.

When he shook her, she moaned. “Ugh. What.”

“Get up, Hawke. This bench isn’t big enough for even one of us.”

She groaned louder and clutched her head as she levered herself to a sitting position. “Maker, I always forget what this is like.” A glow rose around her hands and sank in at her temples. “Ah.” The tension went out of her with the healing.

Then she opened her eyes and glanced at him. “Want some?”

“No. I just need a stretch.”

Hawke stood up and surveyed the other scattered casualties of the night, slumped over tables or curled up on the floor. The dwarf tending bar must have gone to bed after closing the taps.

“I’ll take it if you’re offering, Champion,” said the Charger Krem from the next table. “You could really give our boss a run for his money.” The minstrel looked up from beside him and nodded with a sickly expression.

Hawke rolled up her sleeves and headed toward them. “Right, you first.” Soon she had a small crowd of patients for hangover cures, a rare useful thing she’d picked up from Anders.

And magic made her hungry. Fenris was pondering where to find her some breakfast when there was another loud groan from under their table and Varric emerged.

“I even missed this,” he said. “Dalish over there dabbles in healing, but she just doesn’t have the same touch.”

Hawke had nearly finished with the last Charger when the tavern door opened to admit a rush of chilly fresh air and Sister Leliana.

“All still here?” She crossed toward them. “I hope you remember what we talked about last night.”

“Oh, yes,” Hawke said, stepping away from her patient to take the spymaster’s hand. “Thanks for the idea. We both hate being cooped up, and I’m happy to be useful.”

“It’s the Inquisition that must thank you,” Leliana said. “Scout Harding is ready to take you on her next run down to Redcliffe. Not quite home, I think, but close, no?”

Hawke grinned. “Please apologize to Lady Montilyet for me.”

“Oh, I can manage Josie.” Her answering smile was a little arch again. “And if the Inquisitor returns early, I will send her after you.”

“Excuse me a second,” came a voice from the stairs. “But, Hawke, you were good fun last night, and I’m bored.” The odd elf girl in red gave a snorting chuckle and swung down next to them. “Can I come along? I can help, whatever Varric tells you. Especially with arrows.”

“I would never say otherwise, Sera,” Varric said, looking up at the ceiling. “You are a valued compatriot.”

She blew a raspberry at him. “Value this.”

Hawke looked at Fenris and raised an eyebrow. He shrugged. The girl couldn’t be harder to ignore than Isabela at her worst.

“More the merrier,” Hawke told her.

Leliana seemed about to say something, then turned at another draft of cold air. A woman in armor bearing the sign of the Andrastian Seekers pushed through the tavern door, frowning, and Varric groaned. So, this was her fearsome counterpart.

"I will go with them, Leliana.”

"Cassandra, the Inquisitor wanted you to rest. She asked me to make sure you did, several times. I only told you in the interest of—"

"I am well enough for this. Do you really want these four out there with no supervision?"

"Hmm." Leliana inclined her head and stepped back.

“And the Seeker’s coming. Wonderful.” Varric waved an arm to take in the five of them. “This will be some trip.”

“I’m glad you think so, Varric,” Cassandra said, advancing. “We will have plenty of time for you to explain why the Champion of Kirkwall is standing here and not, after all, mysteriously out of reach.”

“Oh, good,” he said.

Hawke glanced from one to the other, opened her mouth, then closed it prudently.

* * *

After the gear was packed, they gathered in the Skyhold courtyard.

Leliana had written them a list. They were supposed to travel to this Redcliffe—”It’s practically home,” said Hawke. “I’ll give you all the tour”—and settle as many of the Inquisitor’s minor commitments along the way as possible.

“Our Inquisitor Trevelyan is doing an excellent job under the circumstances,” Leliana said, “but she does like to make very sincere promises.”

“She is doing her best,” Cassandra cut in from the bench where she sat.

“That is what I just said, is it not? Still, you will be doing us all a favor by fulfilling them, Hawke.”

“Combat and retrieval is what we do, Sister,” Hawke said, draping one arm around Fenris’s shoulders and another down around Varric’s. “Although we usually get paid, but, like you said, under the circumstances.”

Harding took them east down the mountain, along with a convoy of empty sleigh-carts. Descending was faster, and they could trade off walking and riding in the sleighs to make better time.

However, once she was in a sleigh with him, Cassandra buttonholed Varric and their discussion of his story in Kirkwall nearly became a fight before Hawke dragged Fenris back to interrupt them.

For the rest of the afternoon, he trudged next to Varric and kept him talking with complaints about the cold and attempts at reminiscing, Hawke rode in the sleigh with the Seeker, and Sera tagged along and made what he assumed were jokes.

It seemed to work, because the two of them were civil by evening, but the mood was still tense when Harding stopped the convoy near a ring of tall jagged rocks so they could set up camp out of the wind. She laid out a fire, and Hawke lit it with her staff. Once it was burning steadily, they went back for another load of supplies.

Meanwhile, Fenris and Cassandra had drawn the task of setting up tents, which they managed without exchanging many words. On the third one, from behind the fabric, he heard a scuffling and crunching among the rocks. Before he could drop it, with an earsplitting roar, a dirty white beast the size of three men burst out of an ice-covered crevice.

“Maker take this,” he heard her mutter. She grabbed for her shield, and then she was between the bear and the campsite. It bared its teeth and lunged, knocking her back a few steps. If Varric wasn’t exaggerating, she didn’t need help, but she was favoring her left a little. Fenris dropped the tent pole, drew the sword off his back, and filled the gap next to her. She glanced at him, and they traded brief nods.

It was quick and professional. They flanked the bear, each striking when it charged the other, pushing it back from the tents, and by the time the rest of the group caught up, it was about to fall. Then, “Fenris!” he heard Hawke yell from the campsite, and a fireball exploded in front of them, instantly crisping most of the collapsing bear. If it hadn’t been dead, it was now.

Varric slung Bianca over his shoulder. “Pretty sure it was dead, Hawke,” he said, “but looks like dinner’s served.”

“Bear again?” said Sera, coming up from the trail. “Ugh. Probably full of worms or whatever.” She took out a long knife, squatted in the snow, and began to slice at the smoking carcass anyway. Scout Harding joined her on the other side.

Cassandra came back from investigating the crevice. “I think it was alone.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand and winced, then frowned. Her cheek and forehead were reddened. Fenris’s own face felt a little toasted, and she’d been standing closer.

Hawke peered at her. “Maker’s breath, I wasn’t thinking at all.” She held out her mittened hand, and the air around it began to glow. “Let me fix the burn, at least. I can take the edge off the rest for you too, if you want.”

“I would appreciate that.” Cassandra sat back down on one of the rocks by the campfire. Hawke dropped down beside her, touched her arm lightly, and closed her eyes in concentration. The light slowly brightened, then passed into the Seeker’s body. Her face relaxed and cleared, but she kept eyeing Hawke as if waiting for her to do something else unusual.

Hawke exhaled and opened her eyes. “There. Er, can I help you with something else, Lady Cassandra?”

“Varric told me a great deal about you, Champion. I’m still wondering how much of it was lies.”

“More than none and less than you think,” Hawke said. She got to her feet and moved over to Fenris. “You too. Feel free to call me names and not let me do that again.”

“Hmm.” He sat down on his bedroll and made room for her. Warm healing magic washed over him, tingling when it touched the lyrium in his skin. With no real injuries, it felt inappropriately good, but he no longer got angry at himself for enjoying Hawke’s talents.

“I’d never believe some of the shit that’s happened to us myself, if I hadn’t been there.” She leaned back on her hands and grinned at Cassandra. “Anything you want straight from the Champion, say the word.”

Cassandra smiled a little. “Well, you can hand that to me next.” She took the wine from Hawke. “And there is no need to call me Lady.”

“Done. I mostly just answer to ‘Hawke’ myself. Or ‘Hey you,’ or whatever else Varric takes it into his head to call me.”

“He does that.”

They finished setting up the tents and ate the scorched bear meat supplemented with bread and cheese from the stores. By demand from Hawke, Varric told a story afterward while they all finished the wine, and they slept cold but heartened.

* * *

In the morning, it was sunny and warmer, and the mood was easier. Cassandra accompanied Fenris on foot behind the sleighs. She seemed satisfied not to talk, which suited him too, but eventually he decided to say something.

“Hawke can be extremely irritating. From what experience I have, it means she likes you. I appreciate your not letting the bear eat her.”

She chuckled and adjusted her cloak around her shoulders. “I think I should have just stepped back.” They walked a while in silence. Then she said, “Her strength is obvious. I have seen few mages like her.”

“Hawke is … exceptional. In many ways.”

She glanced at him for a second, hesitated, fixed her eyes back on the trail, then asked, “Was Varric telling the truth that … well, you and she are ...”

Fenris let out a short laugh. “For some values of truth.”

“Ah.”

“He makes up details when he’s not there. And sometimes when he is. I’ve read his books. They were almost the first things I read, in fact.”

“Are you two talking about me?” Varric dropped back from the front of the column.

“No,” they said in curt unison.

“You’re both terrible liars. I’m glad you’ve found something in common. Seeker, Freckles has a question about the route.”

Cassandra made a _hmph_ noise, picked up her pace, and disappeared around the sleigh.

Hawke came up from the rear guard position and put her arms around them, squeezing them both toward her. “Maker’s breath, I’ve missed this. Can you believe nobody else wanted to come rescue you, Varric? I tried to get Isabela.”

“You’ll never talk that one off the sea now she has multiple boats.”

“That’s almost what she said.”

* * *

A few days after they converted the sleighs back to wagons, Harding told them they had almost reached the first destination on Sister Leliana’s list and to look out for it.

“Yes, the ocularum,” said Cassandra. “I remember it was right through there.” She pointed ahead.

“What’s an ocularum?” Hawke asked.

“Creepy as shit, is what it is,” said Varric. They pushed through a stand of bushes onto a cliff-top, and Hawke almost ran into what looked like a glowing skull mounted on a post. “See?”

“Varric is not wrong,” said Cassandra. “It is the skull of a Tranquil mage, enchanted to discover elven artifacts.”

Hawke, who was poking at it curiously, recoiled.

“They should all be given a proper Andrastian pyre, but the Inquisitor is set on finding these things.”

“Maker.” Hawke lifted her staff. “I could burn it here.”

Varric touched her arm. “I get it, Hawke, but that wasn’t on our list and I kind of owe the Nightingale.”

“It feels … bad.” She wiped her hands on her thighs, making a face. “Not to be squeamish, but can somebody else do this one?”

“Not me,” Sera announced. “The climbing’s my bit.”

“Above my pay grade.” Harding held up her hands.

Tevinter magic could be far more horrifying than this curiosity. Fenris stepped past Hawke and peered into the eye sockets. “How does it work?”

“From what I understand, through its eyes you see lights where the shards are,” said Cassandra.

He looked out at the landscape below and sure enough, a light flared at the corner of his eye. He pulled back and described where each one was, and Harding began sketching a quick map.

Afterwards, on the way down, Hawke pulled him aside and kissed him. “Thanks,” she said. “I hate these Venatori already.”

“I look forward to meeting them,” he said, readjusting the sword on his back, and Hawke grinned and squeezed his hand before going to take her place on point.

Fenris brought up the rear again as they descended by switchbacks along the side of the mountain, into a green valley. In front of him, Sera was dangling her booted feet off the back of the last wagon.

"When we were here before, she brought Solas. Ugh." She grimaced. "He never shuts up. 'The Veil is very thin here.' I wish something would get very thin, like … his face. Well, that was no good, but, you know what I mean?"

She looked expectantly at Fenris, and he realized she was talking to him. "I have no idea what you mean."

"What, you didn't meet Solas? Lucky you. Your Hawke is so much better, as mages go."

"She's better than a lot of people."

"Like I said, lucky you. I read some parts of that book." She laughed and went back to swinging her feet. Fenris wondered if there was anyone in the Inquisition who hadn’t read it. Varric probably made them.

"So what do you think of all this ancient elfy shit?" she said after a few seconds.

"I don't," he said flatly. "I think about the ones enslaved today."

"That's what I say." She grinned. "Little people stick together and stick it to them, right? All the masters, nobles, arseholes, whatever."

This time he found her grin more infectious.

"Heard of the Friends of Red Jenny?” she went on. “Bet she has some up where you’re from."

Fenris had nearly asked her to keep talking when Hawke called from the front of the line, “Sera? We found one!”

She hopped down. “Speaking of ancient elfy shit.” She ran ahead, toward Hawke. Fenris followed, mildly curious about these artifacts.

He caught up with the others as Sera was climbing the rock face toward a ledge midway up, finding footholds like a spindly bright spider. Hawke shaded her eyes to look up. “That looks like where you saw it, right?”

“Yes.” Fenris squinted after her. Sera pulled herself onto the ledge and held up something that gleamed green-blue. Then she glanced up, set it down, and started climbing higher. “What is she doing now?”

“No idea.” Hawke raised her voice again. “What are you doing, Sera?”

“Wait a minute,” Sera called.

They watched her clamber toward a red crystal cluster out on the edge of the rocks. It looked more precarious, and as the thought passed through his mind Sera’s foot slipped, kicking down a small cascade of stones and dust.

Hawke grabbed for her staff and Cassandra moved to a better catching position. Fenris considered doing the same. But she didn’t fall.

Instead, Sera braced herself between rocks, pried out the largest of the crystals, and tucked it into the front of her dress. Then she nimbly spidered her way back down, faster than she’d ascended, stopping to recover the shard and wave it at them.

“We do not need drakestone that badly.” Cassandra stepped back from her landing spot as she slid the last few feet.

“Maybe _you_ don’t, but I’ve got my own list and I know someone who wants it.”

“Is this about whatever you have been planning with Arcanist Dagna?” She took the shard from Sera’s hand.

“Who?” Hawke asked.

Sera dusted herself off. “The one in the Undercroft who’s not a boring baldy man.”

Fenris remembered meeting her. Another redheaded dwarf, excited about Hawke, but even more excited about his lyrium tattoos. He’d said no before she asked to study them.

“She said she could make my jars of bees even worse. Or better.” Her grin widened. “If I brought her all these rocks and plants and whatever.” She pulled out a wad of paper and unfolded it. Drakestone was indeed listed, about halfway down. "So, anyway, I want the rocks to be pretty. Dwarves like that, right?" She looked at Varric, who sat on the wagon next to Harding, Bianca in his lap.

“Don't ask me about Orzammar dwarves,” he said, tightening a screw. “I've heard they give each other bouquets of mushrooms."

Sera wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, really? No, I want something nice. So that maybe she'll smile all blushy about it. She's just—" She made a satisfied noise. "Brilliant. She gets all excited talking about magic, and it sounds like rubbish to me, but I don't mind because she's all right. And pretty." She held up her crystal to the light and squinted at it. It was a clear orange-red, certainly eye-catching.

“Well, I can’t speak for Dagna, but I think it’s sweet,” said Harding.

“And what is the next step after bees?" Cassandra asked.

"Bees on fire that shoot arrows right up your arse." Sera grinned.

"An arcanist can do that?"

"I said brilliant."

"Just don't ask Hawke to help you court this woman," Fenris said.

Hawke elbowed him. "Hey, that worked out in the end," she said. "Sera, I'd be delighted to help you find pretty rocks."

"As would I," said Cassandra.

"We'll all help," Varric said. "Prettiest in the land."

"Aw, shut it, you." Sera's ears were pink.

* * *

When they arrived in the late afternoon, the Inquisition’s camp at the crossroads in the valley was at least twice the size of the first one Fenris had seen. Harding stopped the wagon caravan outside the tents, and soldiers began unloading the supplies.

“Excuse me. I must send word of our progress to Leliana.” Cassandra set her pack and shield in front of a empty tent and headed away toward the raven cages.

Fenris put his things with Hawke’s, and the rest of them staked out places around the closest campfire. A pot of something brown and bubbling was cooking over the embers. “Oh, Fereldan stew,” Hawke said. “I didn’t exactly miss it.” But she scooped out a bowl anyway.

“I’ve gotten used to it,” Varric said.

“I’ve had the same thing in Val Royeaux loads of times,” said Sera, licking her spoon. “They just give it a stupid name.”

Hawke laughed. “Don’t let any other Fereldans hear you say that.” She put her bowl down and stretched her legs out toward the fire, leaning back on her hands. “It’s traditional to boil out all of the flavor.”

“Then this cook must have modern sensibilities,” Fenris remarked, tasting his. “It’s not that bad.”

“I’ll pass your compliments on to Scout Chauncey,” came Harding’s voice from behind him. She looked refreshed, had a quiver over her shoulder, and was carrying a short recurve bow. “The refugees can use meat and hides, if anyone’s interested in hunting before nightfall. Plenty of mountain rams around here.”

Varric looked at Hawke. She looked at Fenris. “I saw those rams on the way down,” Fenris said. “Something tells me they won't hold still for single combat.”

“Sounds like you and me,” Hawke said to Varric. “Or, excuse me, you, me, and Bianca.” She climbed to her feet again and made a curtsy toward the crossbow.

“I'll go,” said Sera. “Never enough arrows.”

“Great,” said Harding. “I had some thoughts about your list for Dagna. Why don’t you come up the north trail with me, and Varric and the Champion can take the south?”

Sera and Varric went to fetch their quivers. Hawke bent down and kissed Fenris on the forehead. “Sure you don’t want to come?”

He shook his head. “You never sit still, do you, Hawke?”

“It’s why you love me,” she said.

After she had disappeared between the rocks following the others, Fenris commandeered a folding campaign chair, put his feet up on a barrel, and watched the operation of the camp. The Inquisition soldiers and agents bustled about, intent on their duties. The fire crackled and flickered with the breeze. Ravens croaked from the cages. No one asked him anything. A rare moment of peace.

As night was coming on, the hunters returned. Hawke and Varric were first, arriving sweaty and red-faced, dragging a bedraggled and singed dead ram. “Get some good brooding time in while we were gone?” Varric asked, swinging Bianca off his shoulder.

“Yes,” Fenris said, looking back at the fire.

“I had no idea sheep could be so fast,” Hawke said, flopping herself down next to his chair. She leaned her head against his leg. “This is nice. I think I won’t move for a while.” He stroked her hair and she made happy contented noises, which was an interruption he didn’t mind.

Harding and Sera came down the trail a short while later, carrying another ram lashed to a branch between them, its horns dragging on the ground.

“Oh, you got one.” Hawke sat up. “So did we.”

“Five, actually,” Harding said.

“You got _five_? How?”

“Practice, I guess.”

“They probably heard you coming because _he_ never stopped talking,” Sera said, nodding toward Varric.

“In our defense, you don’t see many cliff-scaling sheep around Kirkwall.” Varric didn’t look up from cleaning the crossbow.

“Right? Rats, pigeons, the occasional dragon … let’s say it was a different skill set.” Hawke got to her feet. “Can I help carry anything?”

Harding pointed a thumb back the way they came. “Knock yourself out.”

* * *

The next morning, following Leliana’s list, the five of them headed up the north road to Redcliffe Village, leaving Harding and the other scouts at the camp.

“The Inquisitor sealed one of the Fade rifts in front of these gates,” Cassandra was saying to Hawke as they passed into the village proper. “I assume you have not seen one yet, but you will if you stay.”

“It was something,” Varric said. “Sorry, you two, I still don’t have good descriptions of this shit.” He made a frame over the gates with his thumbs and forefingers. “Just picture a green hole in the air full of demons.”

“I’m glad the village survived,” said Hawke. “I remember coming here with my mother once and being amazed by the castle and the lake. But that was back before the Blight and … everything.”

They came out onto a path winding through houses and trees, and Varric patted her on the back. “The place is in pretty good shape, considering.”

“Don’t think I’ll be going home, but at least I can see this again.” Hawke’s smile was rueful, and she clapped his back in return.

Everyone was awkwardly quiet for a few paces.

“Well,” Cassandra said, producing the list of tasks, “in Redcliffe, we are supposed to find someone named ‘One-Eyed Jimmy.’ Apparently he is missing a ram.”

“What, seriously?” said Sera from behind them.

“That is what Leliana wrote. See for yourself.” She held out the list.

“All in a day’s work,” Hawke said with renewed cheer. “Hope it’s not one of the ones you shot last night, Sera.”

“Although they would be easy to find,” Fenris said. Sera giggled.

“Let’s just hope the sheep-chasing stops here,” said Varric.

A few villagers along the path greeted the Inquisition folk in passing, but most took no notice of them or kept their curiosity to themselves. One woman pointed them to Jimmy—“He lives just a little way past the inn, you can’t miss it”—whom they found beside an empty animal pen, looking forlorn.

“Jimmy, I presume?” Hawke asked, stepping up to the pen.

“Hello!” he said, brightening. “Are you from the Inquisition? Have you seen my Lord Woolsley?”

Fenris held his tongue, but Cassandra sounded the way he felt. “Lord Woolsley, you say.”

“That’s right!” Jimmy seemed impervious to sarcasm. “Like I told the Lady Inquisitor, he’s very special. Gives the best advice. I do hope you can get him to come home.”

Sera let out a half laugh, half shout. “Ha! Best thing on the list. Calling it.” Jimmy looked even more pleased.

“Can you describe him?” Hawke asked.

“He’s got a lovely orange and red coat,” Jimmy said. “Really stands out. I’m sure he’ll be at my family’s place by the lake. Just tell him I miss him.”

Hawke shook his hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll fetch him for you.”

She gave Fenris a _shut up_ look as they left Jimmy’s yard. Unwarranted, as he hadn’t planned to say anything.

“Gives the best advice,” Varric repeated behind them. “That’s one way to make it interesting.”

“That was … one task.” Cassandra glanced at the list again. “The healer at the crossroads needs a stock of spindleweed for the refugees, and there is another person here to speak to. I remember we met him by the docks.”

She walked faster, disappearing downhill and around a corner. When they caught up with her at the lakeside, an elderly elf was piling flowers into her arms.

“Many thanks,” he said, pressing the last bunch on her. “I’m glad you gave me more time to prepare. My heart will sit easier, knowing my promise to my wife is kept in full.”

Cassandra nodded, holding her chin above the armful of blossoms. “It is our honor.” After the elf was out of sight, she glanced toward Hawke and Fenris. “The Inquisitor was particularly concerned that we do this.”

Sera giggled until the Seeker frowned at her. Hawke, ignoring this, stepped up again and began picking bunches off the top. “Let me take some.”

“Too bad Laurel isn’t here,” Sera said, still giggling.

“She would appreciate this,” Varric agreed. “How should I describe it for her? Battle shepherdess?”

When they each had a bouquet half the size, Cassandra shifted hers to her shield arm and looked relieved. “They are all for his wife’s shrine,” she told Hawke. “Half a day from here at most. Leliana noted the directions.”

“Let’s get the herbs and then go before it all wilts,” said Hawke, who made a good battle shepherdess herself, cradling the bouquet and striding with her staff. Appropriate for the day, he supposed.

They all crossed over to the dock, where Hawke found the first spindleweed plant in the shallow water. As they waded along the beach and the edge of the dock pulling up leaves, Varric started into a story about the Inquisitor surprising the Seeker with a crystal grace crown that made Cassandra outpace them again.

He had nearly finished telling it when they caught up to her by a book stall. She held up a thin book with her free hand and interrupted. “Varric, this dwarf only has one of yours.”

“Oh, fine, I won’t tell them what she said if you’re so testy about it.”

“I am not—” She made a frustrated noise and banged the book down.

Varric approached the stall. “ _Hard in Hightown_  part three? No one should start there.” He peered at the rather weathered binding while the dwarven book merchant goggled at him.

“You’re Varric Tethras?”

He propped an elbow on the stall counter. “That’s me. Listen, write to my publishers in Kirkwall, drop my name, and they’ll give you a deal on the new print run of the full story. I’ll even sign them for you. Or, picture it: my new epic _The Tale of the Champion_ , autographed by the Champion and her closest comrades.” He gestured to the three of them.

Fenris groaned and so did Hawke. Then she smiled apologetically at the merchant over her flowers. “I’ll do it if I’m still around. But, Varric, right now we’ve got to get going.”

“We’ll probably be back through soon. Think about it,” he said to the merchant, pushing away to follow her.

“I will, Messere Tethras!” the merchant called after them. “Lady Champion! Thank you!”

As they left town, passing under the gatehouse arch, Fenris said, “Didn’t chapter three have that fight scene with Isabela and Aveline, or whatever you called them?”

“Belladonna and Hendallen,” Cassandra said before Varric could answer. “I liked the character development, but, I have to say, the fight was not the most realistic.”

“No.” Fenris chuckled.

“I want to see this blade that can chop through a wine cask, a support beam, and then five armored men without dulling.”

“He never gets the magic quite right either,” Hawke chimed in.

“How many times do I have to tell you all realism isn’t the point?” Varric sighed.

* * *

It was a few hours southwest on foot, following Leliana’s directions, to the elf woman’s shrine: on top of a rocky bluff with a sweeping view of hills and forest. Fenris stood near the edge and surveyed the land. The widower had chosen well.

Behind him, Cassandra knelt to set down her somewhat battered flowers and read the inscription aloud. “Senna, beloved, may your ashes be gathered by Falon’Din and carried safely, after all the long years you carried me.”

Fenris turned. “A truly faithful husband. Few of those around.”

Varric laughed. “Always so cynical.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Hawke said, face gone soft. “We should all have such love.” She began scattering her half of the flowers on the stone.

“That’s what I meant,” Fenris said. “He’s a man to admire, and there are too few of those.”

“Not to interrupt this touching moment,” Varric said, “but where’s Sera?”

A high angry scream came from further along the bluff, followed by a man’s scream and groan.

"Hawke!" Varric shouted, bringing Bianca around as a black-feathered arrow sprouted from the ground beside Hawke's boot.

"Shit!" She jumped behind the nearest pine tree. Two more arrows cut the air where she'd been.

Cassandra moved to cover Varric with her shield. Fenris pulled energy from his lyrium, felt it burn his body out of phase, and looked for the bowman. The world crackled blue-white, slow and searing while he ran through the trees.

Behind a rock formation, he found Sera crouching and shooting, yelling insults after three running men. He let go the blue fire and dropped back into the world, panting.

Sera jumped, sending a shot wide, and shrieked again, right next to his ear. “Piss! Where did you come from?”

He crouched next to her. “Difficult to explain.”

“ _They_ were about to ambush you all. Lucky they didn’t get arrows in the face.”

“Cover me.” He gritted his teeth and dragged the lyrium power over himself again. They had nearly shot Hawke.

The bandits were darting from tree to rock to tree. He phased back in when he’d caught up to the trailing one. “Demon!” the man shouted, terrified, and all three fled down the far side of the bluff, tripping and sliding on the rocks.

He chased them until they disappeared into the forest below. Sera and the others caught up with him at what appeared to be their camp in the lee of the bluff.

“They’re gone,” he said to Hawke, frowning. “Unless you want to keep giving chase.”

She thought for a second, then shook her head. “Let them go. We’ll just take their campsite, since they did try to kill us.” She went to inspect the crates and sacks by the fire.

“Was that magic?” Sera asked. “I mean, had to be. You were, like … half here, half not here.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Still, pretty useful, right? You could sneak up on anyone. Steal whatever.”

“It has its uses. And drawbacks.”

“You should see him yank out somebody’s heart,” Varric broke in.

Sera made a face. “Eugh. You can do that?”

“Only to people I really don’t like,” Fenris said.

Hawke was sorting through the contents of a crate and laying them on the grass: some hideous plaid cloth, coins, jewelry and trinkets. She produced a bag and shook it open. Varric laughed. “Oh, Hawke, still at it.”

“Varric probably didn’t tell you about my collecting,” she said to Cassandra. “I know he left it out of the book.”

“I left it out because it’s absurd. Heroes in stories don’t carry home every pair of torn pantaloons they find on the way to slay the dragon.”

“They were all perfectly good.” Hawke bent to rummage through the crate again. “Only needed a patch or two.”

“You never wore them!” Varric threw up his hands.

“Waste not, want not,” Hawke said, muffled. “I just hate it when people abandon … perfectly … lovely … things.” She pulled her head out and held a small crystal figurine up to the light.

At this Cassandra chuckled. “You and Laurel both. I think I’ve heard her say exactly that.”

“It’s a griffon! I love them.” Hawke popped it into the bag.

“Well, I’m going to look for things on my list,” Sera said, heading back into the trees. “Yell when she’s done.”

“I’m in no hurry.” Varric sat down on an empty crate and cut into a wax-covered cheese he’d found. “Not bad.” He offered Fenris a slice.

After Hawke had finished collecting booty, Sera returned with some of her own, and they sat on the grass in the sun to share the other trail food they’d brought. Then they started back north, bearing further east this time, toward Lake Luthias.

Fenris fell back until he was walking alone with Hawke, the others just out of sight.

After a time of companionable silence, she put her arm around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. “So, having fun yet?”

“None of this has been what I expected. But that’s nothing new.” He touched the red scarf from her that he’d worn for years now. ”You’ve been carrying me since I met you, Hawke. I go where you go.”

She got the same soft look she’d had back at the shrine, and squeezed him harder. They walked like that almost all the way to the lake, pines sighing overhead.

* * *

The ram’s orange wool stood out so much that they spotted it well before reaching the water. “That must be his lordship,” Varric said, pointing to the bright shape meandering among the trees and grasses on the single small island.

“Maybe you and Hawke should stay here,” said Sera. “No offense, Hawke.”

Varric shaded his eyes and squinted across the lake. “One-Eyed Jimmy wants him alive, not dead. You heard the man. And besides, I’ve decided I want to talk to him. Find out how he gives advice. What makes him tick.”

Hawke laughed. “I’m not going to miss that. I can be sneaky.”

“I don’t especially want to go wading.” Cassandra sat down on the ramshackle dock, crossing her legs. “If Varric will deliver the message to the ram, I will stay and watch for bandits.”

“Hmm. Those three might have followed us,” Fenris said. “So will I, Hawke.”

“Suit yourselves,” said Varric, pulling off his boots. “When we come back enlightened, you’ll both be kicking yourselves.”

“I’ll take that chance.” Fenris walked to the edge of the water and planted his feet to stand guard. Hawke tossed her shoes and stockings at him, forcing him to crack a smile.

Sera was already barefoot and moving toward the island, tiptoeing over the boards with eager eyes fixed on Lord Woolsley. Varric followed her with his boots around his neck, and Hawke did her best stealth imitation behind him.

Cassandra watched them troop quietly down the long pier and into the shallows, then inspected the flat of her sword and rubbed at a spot with the tail of her coat.

A breeze rippled the lake, and a fish jumped in the distance with a tiny splash. The sun was warm on his back. On the island, he could see Varric’s red shirt, then Sera, then Hawke, getting closer to the ram.

After about ten minutes, an orange streak flew over the water and bounded down the rocks on the far side. Shortly thereafter, the three returned, less quietly.

“Varric told him Jimmy missed him, and he just looked at us and ran off,” Hawke said, splashing toward him and onto the shore.

“No thanks,” grumbled Varric. “No advice. Nothing in return.”

“I hope he went back to Jimmy.”

“He must have done,” said Sera. “They belong together. Stupid Lord Sheep.”

“Let’s assume he did,” said Fenris, “and consider it finished.” He didn’t have to play shepherd, neither did Hawke, and they might make it back early. The evening was looking better.

Cassandra stood up and sheathed her sword. “I agree. We are not far from the crossroads.”

Hawke dried her feet fastidiously and reclaimed her shoes from him, and they headed for the path down, near where Lord Woolsley had disappeared.

“I can’t believe I got excited about talking to a ram,” Varric was saying as they descended. “I blame you, Hawke.”

“Well, he listened.”

“Of course he did. Andraste’s ass, that’s not the point.”

* * *

Back at the Inquisition camp, there was more of the Fereldan stew—improved by a day’s exercise—and a place to wash, and the soldiers had tapped a barrel of ale.

As night came on, the atmosphere around the fires was more rowdy, with loud laughter and musical instruments appearing from scouts’ packs. Harding had joined them to eat, and was nodding and smiling as Hawke showed off her bag of new acquisitions.

“You can probably get something for those.” She pointed to the miniature griffon and the tiny gilded furniture. “Not much, though. The jewelry’s better.”

Hawke turned the bag inside out and glanced at Varric. “Notice, absolutely no pantaloons.”

Sera chuckled madly. “If you want some, I can get you some.”

“No, Sera,” said Varric in a resigned voice. “Sera, no. Seeker, don’t let them encourage each other.”

“Don’t steal Varric’s breeches,” Cassandra told her.

“I can’t authorize it, but I appreciate the thought.” Hawke clapped Sera on the shoulder. “I also found more possibilities for your list.” She took out a second bag.

“Oh, yes please.” Sera leaned over Harding’s lap to see and then scooted into her place, and they began an animated discussion of what Dagna might think of her finds.

Fenris let the talk all around roll over him as he watched the fire: Hawke being herself, Varric telling stories, and these new people he supposed he could call friends, an easier-flowing camaraderie. He realized he was enjoying it.

An audience gradually formed around Varric, scouts and soldiers and refugees crowding in, and the others quieted down to a murmur.

The moons were overhead and he was starting into one of his oldest tall tales about Kirkwall when Hawke felt for Fenris’s hand and squeezed it.

“I’ve heard this one a hundred times,” she whispered.

Sera beside her was entranced, and around them was a wall of soldiers’ backs.

She pulled him away from the fire, silently. Outside the circle, between the clearings, she backed him up to a tree and kissed him with serious intent. “What you said before.” She took a breath. “You know we carry each other, right? I’m with you too.”

Moonlight became her, and she was making it hard to focus on words, but he didn’t think she wanted them. He leaned into the tree and lifted her off her feet. She swallowed a laugh and wrapped her legs around him before resuming her efforts.

When they eventually found their tent on the other side of the trees, Hawke moved her hand and a pattern of light flashed across the canvas and disappeared. “Glyph of silence,” she murmured.

“Another benefit I’ll acknowledge,” he said, and she pushed him in.

* * *

“It appears we are not done hunting livestock,” Cassandra announced the next morning at breakfast. “A farmer is missing a druffalo.”

“I would ask if you’re joking, but when I ask you never are,” Varric said.

“I am not. It has been missing for some time, and the Inquisitor agreed to find it.”

“Well, bring it on, I say.” Hawke punched the air. She’d woken up sunny and very pleased with both of them, and the sight of her stopped Fenris from complaining. He chewed his bread and held his tongue, even though the task was ridiculous.

The farmer in question lived another half-day’s walk northwest, amid a cluster of farms in a sheltered valley. When she found them on her doorstep, the wife of the Inquisition’s horse-master invited them in for lunch. The daughter challenged Sera to a horse race, and then Hawke, who almost accepted before Varric reminded her they had plans.

Once refreshed, they sought out the farmer with the problem, but found an empty dusty field and an equally empty farmhouse. A note fluttered on the door.

Fenris pulled it down. “Apparently he’s not at home.”

“He couldn’t be bothered to stick around while we do his chores?” Varric said. “The nerve of some people.”

Sera shrugged. “Guess we can’t do it. I’m going for a rematch with Seanna.”

“Come on, where’s your adventuring spirit?” Hawke said.

Cassandra was gazing around the field. “If we are going to do this, the creature left a trail.” She pointed to a broken fence on the river side of the field. “It can’t be harder than tracking a rider.”

Fenris pocketed the note and followed them toward the fence.

On the other side, deep cloven hoofprints in dried mud led down the riverbank. An eerie green light hovered in the air a few hundred feet upriver.

“And that is a Fade rift,” Cassandra said. “Don’t go that way.”

“Unless you want a faceful of demons,” added Varric. “Guess she missed that one last time.”

Hawke stopped to stare at it flashing and twisting over the water. “How close is too close?”

“Let’s say I’d stay back here, Hawke.” Varric touched her arm. “Since we don’t have the Inquisitor’s magic hand with us.”

Sera giggled and looked at Cassandra. “Too bad, right?”

"You have no idea,” she said, deadpan, watching the rift.

At this Hawke cracked up almost as much as Sera did. “A joke, Seeker!” Varric clapped. “I didn’t have to ask!”

“But since we do not,” she went on, “as Varric says, you should all stay back.”

She pointed out a shallow ford downstream, and they waded across. The tracks continued up the opposite bank—so the druffalo wasn’t demon meat yet—and ended between two rock formations where the dirt turned to loose stones.

Further on, the rock formations grew, and the paths between became a maze of small canyons. “Easy for a big animal to get trapped,” Fenris remarked. “We still may not find it alive.”

Shaggy hair scraped on rocks and occasional droppings provided enough of a trail to keep following.

At last, the canyon opened out into a wider space fronting a rock overhang, beneath which a cave retreated into darkness. Around the opening of the cave, a small pack of black wolves howled and whined and snapped at the air, pacing and circling.

Fenris looked at Hawke and shrugged.

“If it was dead, they’d be eating or sleeping it off,” she pointed out.

“Or they’re waiting for it to die.”

Hawke frowned at him.

“Wolves hate fire, don’t they?” said Varric. “Do that, Hawke.”

She unslung her staff and squinted toward the cave in a way she wouldn’t like to hear was charming, then up at the sky, then took a stance and pointed the staff. Fenris covered his ears. A few seconds later, a fireball exploded in the air above the overhang, shedding flames down toward the wolves, and simultaneously a massive brown-coated shape came barreling out of the cave, scattering them in its panicked charge.

Whimpering and yelping, the wolves ran, tails between legs, disappearing between the rocks, as the druffalo pounded to a halt in front of the cave and made a trumpeting snorting sound, the last of the fire falling around it. It did appear healthy, unhurt, and displeased. He moved between it and Hawke.

"Didn’t expect that,” she said, “probably should have.” She walked past him toward the beast. It narrowed its eyes and sat back on its haunches. He spied straps buckled around its neck, under its matted mane; so there was a way to lead it back, in theory.

Hawke was close to it now, reaching out a hand. The druffalo snorted and heaved its bulk forward. She jumped to the side. Its momentum carried it thundering past her, past all of them, to the other rock wall, where it was forced to stop and wheel back to face them. It fixed them with a suspicious glare.

“Sure you still want to do this?” Sera called from behind.

The druffalo lowered its head and cropped a mouthful of weeds from between the rocks, still eyeing them sidelong.

Hawke took a step toward it. When it snorted again, she quickly stepped back. “Ideas, anyone?”

“Didn’t Commander Cullen grow up in the country?” Varric mused. “Maybe we should get him down here.”

Cassandra said, “I am not going to summon the commander all the way from Skyhold and wait another fortnight for this.”

“I wasn’t being serious. But seriously, why not go back to the farm for Mistress Elaina or her daughter?”

“Maybe, if we must.” She tapped fingers impatiently. ”Can’t we just give it some food it likes? A carrot on a stick, or something.”

“The saying is ‘carrot and stick,’ Seeker. And carrots are not your specialty.” Varric sat down on a rock. “Maybe you can just beat it into submission.”

“That’s sounding good to me,” Fenris said.

“All right,” Hawke said, holding up her hands, staff on her back again. “I was born near some farms, anyway. There were druffalo in Lothering. I think.”  
  
“Can’t you just magic it?” Sera asked.

“Alas, there is no animal husbandry school of magic.”

“Good thing for the animals.” Sera moved from the rock where she was perched to another further back.

“Have to improvise,” Hawke mused. “An illusion might get its attention. Oh! Fenris, you could ghost up and tie a rope to its halter. If we had a rope.”

“Say no more, Hawke.” Varric began unwinding a slim cord from inside Bianca’s stock. “Reinforced cable from the Merchants’ Guild. It’ll even hold that thing.”

“If we both don’t succumb to the smell,” Fenris said. The beast rivaled the Kirkwall docks on a bad day.

“Do you have another?” Hawke asked. Varric nodded and extracted a second length of cable. “I’m thinking one person on each side, in case it bolts.” She passed both lines to Fenris and pulled him with her, walking around to one side of the druffalo. “We’re doing this for Varric,” she muttered. “And the Inquisition.”

“Inquisitor Trevelyan must be Andraste come again to be worth all this,” he muttered back, maybe too loudly.

“I’m very fond of the Inquisitor,” Varric said, returning to his rock, “but why she signed us up for this one is beyond me.”

“Wanting to help people is one of her best qualities.” Cassandra frowned at him, hands on her hips. “Though I admit she may have been … misguided in this case. Our resources are not infinite.”

Fenris tuned their voices out and braced himself, then reached through the lyrium and pulled, gritting his teeth as everything burned blue-white. Holding the ghost state, he walked slowly away from Hawke toward the druffalo.

It kept its head down, nosing around for more plants, unaware of him. Keeping his fingers away from its skin, he tied the cable to the dangling halter straps, using a knot Isabela liked to say was secure enough to tow a ship. Then he backed off, soft-footed, phasing back in when he reached the end of the slack line.

He passed the second line to Cassandra, who wound it around her hand.

“Ready,” he said to Hawke, moving toward the opposite rock wall to give the creature a clear path between them.

Her concentrating squint returned, and she pointed the staff at the ground ahead. Green lines of light drew themselves into a complex sigil-pattern and extended upward, forming a massive basket filled with sketchily outlined carrots. The druffalo raised its head, tossing the makeshift reins, and looked perplexed.

“It needs to smell it, Hawke,” said Varric.

She clicked her tongue. “Hold on.” Another surge of light and a scent began to rise from the illusion, almost but not entirely like the real vegetable. Apparently it was enough, because the beast took a step toward it, and then another.

They chivvied it back through the twisting canyons like this: Fenris and Cassandra reining it in when it pulled the wrong way, Hawke keeping magic food dancing in front of it, and Varric and Sera following her, offering unhelpful commentary about what druffalo might enjoy.

On the approach to the river, his arm getting sore, Fenris thought he heard someone whistling a tune up ahead. Then it came again. “Do you hear that?”

Around the last rock appeared a woman of medium height with a long chestnut braid, her left hand glowing the eerie green of the Fade, holding a bundle of real carrots. She waved to them.

Cassandra, slightly ahead of the druffalo, had shaded her eyes to look. Surprise crossed her face, and then a rare smile. “It’s the Inquisitor.”

“Maker, she _is_ Andraste come again,” said Hawke, and from Cassandra’s expression, she seemed to agree.

Hawke squeezed past the druffalo, letting the illusion go, and hurried forward to meet her. “Varric was right! I like you already!”

Trevelyan’s smile crinkled her cheeks in a lopsided way. “Marian Hawke, I presume?” She shook Hawke’s hand with her non-glowing right. “I got a bird from Leliana telling me to go straight here, so I let the others continue to Skyhold and rode fast. I must have been right behind you.”

She leaned to see past the druffalo. “And you must be Fenris!” she called. “I’ve read about you!” Of course. He raised a hand in answer.

The druffalo snorted and sniffed the air, scenting the real treat. He kept hold of the line, not that it would do much good if the beast charged.

Trevelyan hugged Varric and Sera over her armful of carrots, and then Cassandra for rather longer. “Leliana said you were here. Why aren’t you resting?

“It is a long story. I’m sure Varric can tell you all about it.”

Sera had stolen a carrot and was dangling it by the green stem in front of the druffalo, which stretched its neck toward it.

“I have some stories, too,” Trevelyan was saying before the druffalo lunged, yanking the lines, and chomped the carrot in half, making Sera yelp and jump back. “Sera!” She let go and turned.

“Piss on that. You do the rest,” Sera announced from a safe distance away.

“Just watch out for the teeth,” said Cassandra as Trevelyan approached it.

“I am. Have you two ever been to the Emerald Graves in the Dales?”

Hawke and Fenris shook their heads. She stepped toward the druffalo and held out another carrot. It snuffled and almost delicately slurped it off her flat hand.

“Literal giants. I thought they were a myth.” She paused and looked at Hawke. “Oh. Thanks for everything you’ve done, by the way. I’m so glad these people didn’t have to wait longer for help.”

“Glad to be of service,” Hawke said.

Her gaze shifted toward Fenris. “If you’re coming back to Skyhold with me, we should talk. Leliana also said you’d have information for me?”

“Absolutely. All in good time,” Hawke said. “But I want to hear about the giants.” She grinned. “And we have a job to finish.”

Trevelyan took a few steps back and set down a third carrot. “That we do. Seems like the work is never done.”

“Tell me about it,” said Hawke, looping her arm around Fenris’s waist on his free side as they followed her.


End file.
